A DW Let's Get Dangerous
by VAPX007
Summary: A series of one-shots: One night, Drake snr stepped into a burning building to rescue in need citizens and didn't walk back out. This story isn't about him but rather of who he left behind ...
1. Too Dangerous

_A/N: Just some one-shots I have, extrapolating the back-story for the unfamous Disney owned Darkwing Duck and Megavolt characters. Because I'm bad at cryptics, I have decided to post this. Hopefully you will get the idea._

* * *

**Too Dangerous**

* * *

_"Whoa ... my mama told me not to become a m-musician." The back door to the paddy wagon slammed shut on The King and his gang._

_"And so, with the villainous vocalist and his lyrical lackeys safely locked up, the fearless Darkwing Drakey can at last breathe easily."_

_"Well ... nice work son. Funny clothes though..."_

_"No-oh, I didn't do so much. It was Darkwing Duck who ..." He looked around. "Hey, where'd he go?"_

* * *

"Who?" The officer asked. "There's just you and us here." The cop looked at Drakey like he had drunk too much red cordial.

"No, there was a Duck in a cape ..." The cop shook his head. Maybe Drakey had been imagining things?  
"Son ... how about I drive you home?"  
"That'd be good, thanks." Drakey took his inside out hat off his head and undid the shirt he'd tied around his neck.  
"Oh, now I recognise you." The cop smiled at him. "You're Drake Mallard's son, aren't you?"

Drakey looked up at him in astonishment. "Y-you knew my father?"  
The cop opened the passenger side door. "Sure did." Drakey buckled himself in as the cop went around and got into the driver's seat. "How's your mum been holding up?"  
Drakey held tightly onto his comic book. "Don't tell mum about Lamont and the others."

"Well, if she asks where've you been, what're you going to tell her?"  
"I ..." Drakey considered this question as they drove along the quiet evening roads. "She won't ask."

"I think you'll be surprised, son."

* * *

The cop pulled up to the curb. "You alright, son, you got a key?"  
"Yes, thank you." He got out of the car and turned.

The Mallard residence was upper middle class. A gardener came to tend the gardens once a month. Rose bushes hung on trellises along the pathway as he passed beneath them. The house had a double garage without a car, a large porch without any stray leaves or cobwebs. The house had an attic and a basement and three stories in between. This suburban reality was so different from where he had just been.

He put his key into the lock and opened the door. That strange, empowering encounter with Darkwing Duck faded to a dream.

He stepped inside. The entrance hall was large and half a dozen doorways branched off it. There was a hall stand with a fancy hat, a vase of fresh flowers, and a bust of Beethoven. Large paintings of Central Park and a lofty, panoramic view of St Canard hung, filling the walls on either side with colour and grandness. There was a picture missing, however. It was the family photo that had had his dad in it, and it had gone missing shortly after he died.

* * *

"Mum?" He looked in and out of each of the rooms, and then looked up the central staircase. "Mum?" He called up. He hurried up the stairs and stopped on the middle landing when he heard her voice.

"Drakey?" She called from below. "I'm in the kitchen." He raced back down.  
"Mum?" He looked around; something wasn't right.  
"Oh, Drakey, where have you been?" She opened the oven. "I've been so worried about ..."  
"No, mum!" He rushed to her side as she reached into the oven. She jumped back with a yelp. He pulled her over to the sink. "You forgot the mitts, mum." He ran the cold water over her hands.

The room filled quickly with the smoke and his mother opened the window over the sink.  
"Oh, dear." She sobbed, cradling her fingers, coughing. "I've overcooked it. I haven't been concentrating lately."  
"No, leave your hands under the water!" He insisted because she wasn't concentrating. "Did you remember to put the timer on, mum?"  
"No."

"I'm sorry I was late home." Drakey dragged the small step ladder across from the corner of the spacious room. Getting up on it, he reached into the freezer for an icepack. He came back down and took the tea towel hanging on the oven handle. He wrapped the pack up and handed it to her.

Then he looked at the oven. It was a very dangerous thing. But it wasn't too dangerous for this Drakey Mallard. Not anymore. Drakey got the mitts that were hanging up and struggling, pulled the heavy roast out of the oven. He put the roast on the sink.

He looked in the oven again for another tray but there wasn't one and he closed it. He did another check of the hotplates. At this moment he noticed the oven was still on and quickly turned it off.

He turned back to his mum. "No ... no vegetables?" He asked very troubled. How could she possibly forget that part? Sure; his memory was bad too, but not even the vegetables?

"Oh, I knew I was forgetting something! I'm so sorry, Drakey."

He froze as a fresh set of tears formed in her eyes.

"Don't cry ... its okay, mum, we ..." He thought up a solution to this new problem. "We can have sandwiches." He did a mental check and that plan would work. "Yeah."  
She smiled at him in wordless relief.

He smiled weakly back. "I'm sorry, mum. I promise to be more careful and not to stay out so late again." Then he peered at her hands. "You've gotten burnt, mum. I'll get the first aid kit. You go to the sitting room." He followed her out of the room, making sure she didn't stay in the disaster zone without him.

* * *

Drakey went into the study. This room was the most amazing place in the whole house. It was a whole world unto itself. The carpet was thick and colourful, thick heavyset bookshelves banked the walls. Generations of Mallards had collected these books and filled these shelves with their curiosity and interest ... including his dad.

Drakey pulled the first aid kit from out of the bottom drawer of the ancient wooden desk that stood darkly in the middle of the room.

He lugged the heavy first aid kit through the adjacent door into the sitting room. The grand piano took up a quarter of the room and stood near the blue chenille curtained windows. Lamp stands framed them, and cast their light onto yet more paintings of St Canard. One was a Jazz club scene; another was a ballet in session at the opera house. The King of Rock, live at the St Canard Ritz. Plush chairs, a record machine cupboard, a fireplace and a coffee table made up the rest of the furniture.

"That's your father's kit." His mother eyed it tearily as he sat it down on the coffee table. "He got burnt sometimes too." Her train wrecked emotions sounded in her exhausted voice as Drakey organised the things he needed from the kit. "I miss him so much." Drakey blinked back tears for his mother. He couldn't cry anymore, this was it. He had to move on with his life.

Drakey concentrated on putting cream on the burns and making the assessment that it wasn't too bad that they needed to go to the hospital. He wrapped her hands up in cotton. It was good doing something practical.  
"Look, mum." He hesitated. What a scary idea, but he took his courage into his hands. He knew he could do it. "From now on, let me cook."  
"No, no! You're only seven years old."

"Mum, you're not well. You can't think of so many things when you're not well. You need to rest instead."  
"Oh! My little boy's growing up so quickly. Give me a hug, sweetie." He sat down next to her, hugging her. "Where did you get all this courage of a sudden?"  
"I guess ... I-I had a dream." He scratched his head. "I don't remember it much anymore. It was really good though." He struggled, but too many things had happened since then, and the entire memory had gone.

His mother sighed. "I can't cut up the roast with my hands like this. Gosh it stings." He looked down at her hands. She was cradling the ice pack in her cottoned fingers.  
That meant only one thing. He took a breath. Even if she hadn't burnt herself, a knife in her hand was still a bad idea when she couldn't concentrate. "I'll do it, mum." He stood up and went into the kitchen.

* * *

Drakey opened the knife drawer, trembling with his nerves. "Mum needs me to look after her." He looked at all the sharp pointed ends. "Let's g-get d-dangerous."

A few minutes later and he'd safely cut the roast up. He was emptying the fridge of things to put into sandwiches and piling them on the breakfast table.  
"I'm very proud of you, Drakey." He beamed up at his mother. "You remind me so much of your father." His smile faded.

"I'm not like him!" Drakey quacked. "I'm careful."

"Oh, sweetheart, don't you know? Your father was always careful." She sighed and reached for the butter knife. He pushed her hands away and got up onto a chair. He made her sandwich for her. "Your father was a very clever man."  
Drakey put down the butter knife. "Then why isn't he still alive?" He said, tears in his eyes. "You can't be clever and careful and then still die like he did."

"Yes, you can; because nobody's perfect sweetie. You can't think of everything all the time. Nobody can."  
He grabbed the knife again. "Then I'll just fill my head with only the important stuff." He completed the sandwich with a spread of mayonnaise, cut it up into corners and slid the plate in her direction.

She blinked back more tears. "I'll never know why." She said quietly. "I just know how empty my life is now he's gone."  
"Dad thought it was the right thing to do." Drakey said with conviction.  
His mother sighed. "It doesn't matter anymore. Let's not argue about it. He's dead."

"It matters to me." He mumbled as he made his own sandwich. "It matters to you."  
"What your father did for a living was very dangerous, Drakey."  
"You've told me that before, mum." Constantly, in fact.  
She carefully picked up a sandwich corner. "And it finally caught up with him." Tears filled her eyes again and she took a mouthful. She swallowed. "Maybe he just didn't remember us."

Drakey felt sick. Also, the meat was too dry from the overcooking. After all that effort to save the roast and make the sandwich, he pushed his plate away. "Dad remembered everything." Drakey wrote the story as he sat there at the table with his mother. "Somebody's family needed help. If people needed my help, I'd want to help them too. Only he could help them, and that's why he went in. He had to try."

"That doesn't make it right!" She said snapping suddenly. "You should always do the right thing first."

"Yeah, but we weren't in danger." He slid off his chair and put the rest of his sandwich into the disposal.  
"What's the matter, sweetie?"  
"I'm not hungry." He yawned.  
"Bed time then."  
He nodded. "Be careful, mum. Goodnight." He kissed her cheek. "Love you."  
"You too, sweetie." He turned and headed out of the kitchen. "Wait, don't you want me to ..." She hooked her bandaged hands around the icepack as he spun around on the spot.

"What, mum?"  
"Check your closet before you turn off the light?" The feathers on the back of Drakey's neck prickled with the seriousness in his mother's voice. "And make sure your windows are locked. Check under the bed too?"  
"I'll do it, mum. I'm alright. You won't be able to with your hands like that."  
"Do you know where the broom is?"  
"Yes; it's leaning against the landing banister. I'll check your room for you too, and then we can both go to bed safely."

His mother sighed, relief filled her face. "Thank you, sweetie."


	2. Lessons

_Disclaimer: I do not own Darkwing Duck or Sherlock Holmes. Also, thank you Led Zeppelin for the beautiful _Stairway to Heaven.

_A/N: I have left this episode unbroken due to readership preferences. _

_A/N: It is rather long because so many delicate topics are covered in this episode. _

_A/N: I have ended up giving it a comparatively lame name in order to describe essentially what it is overall. _

**

* * *

**

**Lessons**

* * *

It was lunchtime in the schoolyard. Drakey was sitting near the monkey bars in his favourite spot.

"I'm gonna pound you if you make me look like a fool, Sputterspark." The beagle barked suddenly at the rat, making Drakey jump from his comic.

'Picking on me is one thing ...' Drakey thought with his recently discovered courage. 'Picking on someone else is ... well it's ... not very nice at all.'

"Rest assured, Finnigan, I will do my utmost to fulfil my duties proficiently."  
"Yeah, you'd better remember your lines ..." Finnigan pushed Elmo over. "Or else this'll happen!" He took a step forwards, rubbing his knuckles into the palm of his other hand.

Drakey stepped in, getting right between Elmo and the knuckle sandwich from the oversized beagle. "Go away, Finnigan, and leave Elmo alone!" Drakey 'accidentally' stepped on his foot for emphasis, right before Finnigan had a chance to redirect his attack.  
"Ow! Miss!" The bully ran off in tears looking for sympathy from a teacher.

"You alright, Elmo?" Drakey helped his classmate back up.  
Elmo gazed at Drakey in amazement for a moment. "Wow, I've never seen you do that before." He collected himself together again. "A good call, sir. My attempt to reason with the ruffian did not succeed."

Drakey picked up Elmo's favourite book that had a squirrel on it and handed it to Elmo. Then he picked up a booklet. The play. He handed that to Elmo as well. "Reason with Finnigan?" Drakey raised an eyebrow. "What's the weather like on the planet that you come from, Elmo?"  
"All reasonable people can be reasoned with." Elmo countered.

Then he hesitated. "We're in the same class together every day ... what's your name again?"  
"Drakey Mallard." Drakey answered. He decided not to mention the fact that they also saw each other sometimes because their mothers were friends.

For a moment, the look of concentration was intense on Elmo's face as he tried to impress Drakey's name on his brain. "D, then. Are you going to be in the play ... D?"  
"No, I don't have the time; I have to look after my mum. She's not so strong like your ma." He paused. "My name's not D, it's Drakey."  
"But I'll remember D better because you're a very square personality. It suits you."

Drakey scratched his head, wondering how a square related to the letter D, or his personality for that matter. He finally decided once again that Elmo and his mother came from a different planet and that was why they talked with such funny expressions.

"So ... you can remember it better that way?"

Elmo put his hand on his 'new' friend's arm; "It won't take all evening to practice our lines, D. We can practice on the play after dinner, and you'd make a much less scary person to study with. And I can help you with math afterwards. It'll be fun. I already asked my ma and she's really excited about me being in the play. She won't mind driving you back home or picking me up either way. And she can talk to your mother some more. I know she likes doing that."

"But ... I can't be in the play. I'm really bad at remembering things," Drakey paused, "E."  
"I've got a few tricks I can teach you to remember." Elmo smiled. "I have lots of trouble remembering things too. But I use these tricks and they help me. Like with math."  
"You do? You have memory problems too? Even math?" Drakey gaped at Elmo. "But you always get A's!" Drakey was amazed.  
Elmo grinned slyly at Drakey, sensing victory. "Say yes to Mr. Horton, D. It'll be fun. I promise."

Drakey considered Elmo's words and realised a discouraging truth. "No-oh; you just don't want to practice with Finnigan."  
"Not just!" Elmo argued with a look of hurt on his face. "We could be friends too. Like our mothers."  
"I'm not smart." Drakey was confused. "Why me?"

"Well," Elmo tapped his nose, "consider the stress factor that arises from the existence of multiple factions. The stress load increases as the number of factions increase."  
"You're multiplying fractions?" Drakey scratched his head overwhelmed with all of Elmo's words.  
"No I meant ..." Elmo paused. "Actually, you're kinda right. Me plus you, why that's double what we had before. That makes our denominator smaller than Finnigan and he won't have as much luck pushing either of us around."

"Double it, which makes the denominator smaller ..." Drakey blinked. "And so Finnigan won't beat us up so much?"  
"Correct."  
Drakey smiled. "This is the first time I ever found math so interesting."

Elmo gaped at Drakey now. "Gosh, D, the world would fall apart without math!" He pointed at the jungle gym and the monkey bars. "There's so much going on with just the monkey bars ... If you want to be any good at anything in life you gotta know about math." He ushered Drakey over and began talking tirelessly about spatial geometry and gravitational forces.

* * *

In the afternoon Drakey sat, irritated in class as Finnigan and his friends spat paper pellets at him. It was just one of those days. He brushed the goop off and did his best to listen to the teacher.

"Now we still need lots of volunteers to be in our class play."  
Elmo turned back in his chair and looked at him, pleading. Drakey hesitated, and then put up his hand.  
"Ah, good." Mr. Horton handed him a booklet. "Glad to see you finally getting into the spirit of things, Drakey. This'll be good to get your confidence up."

"Y-yes, sir." Drakey just wasn't confident about the 'things' he was putting himself in for.

* * *

School finished and he got home. After getting dinner started, he got up into a chair and opened out the booklet on the kitchen table.

The teacher had cleverly slotted the character he had to learn in as a bookmark. "Les-trade." He read aloud, realising he had to do a bit more of that now if he was going to act it out.

"Study?" His mother coughed into a handkerchief as she sat down beside him in her nightdress.  
"Mr. Horton wants me to be in the class play."  
His mother dragged the booklet towards her and had a look at it.

"You'll need a costume."  
"... I ... I didn't think of that." Drakey looked away from her, ashamed at having not seen this flaw in the plan before he'd taken on the duty. He certainly didn't like that feeling of having missed something.

"I'm sure we can think of something. I'm pretty good at making costumes, and there's plenty of fabric upstairs. How about after dinner we'll get started?"  
He hugged her in relief, also glad for his luck. "Thanks, mum."

* * *

After measuring him and drawing and pinning, she began cutting and Drakey sat down to his script.

It wasn't long at all, however, before she called out for him again. "Drakey?"  
He leaped up from his spot and raced across the sewing room, the script in his hands.  
"So now, see all the bits I've cut out?" She showed him each of the strange shapes. "This is how they'll fit together." She demonstrated each piece on him.  
"Keen gear, mum!" He gushed. "Why, you could make anything!"  
"Sure we could."

He looked up excitedly at the sewing machine. "Can you show me how that works?"  
"Well ... I guess. It's not too dangerous." She analysed thoughtfully.  
He frowned at her. "Mum! It's not even really sharp because the needle is protected."

"... You shouldn't be making dinner either."  
"Mum, you're not well enough. Even Mrs. Sputterspark agrees."  
"Okay, okay." She folded with a sigh. "I won't argue with you; not when Sylvia backs you up, for goodness sakes. So, what bits do you think we should sew together first?"  
He considered for a long moment, and then picked up the front and the back. "This looks really tricky."

"Good guess; you've picked the right pieces to start." She reached for the pins. "So now you see that I'm working on the reverse side of the fabric? This way the stitching will be hidden."

* * *

It was a short while and Drakey had abandoned the script entirely to stand beside his mother. He watched in fascination as the machine whirred noisily, connecting the parts together. He backed up when she nearly hit him with her elbow.

"Whoops, Drakey, are you alright?"  
"Can I see it, mum?" He spurted in a bubble of excitement, reaching for the newly connected bits.  
His mother laughed. "It's a long way from finished yet, junior." She fitted the parts around him.

"Keen gear, this is so cool! It'll be like when Superpig changes into his superhero costume."  
"It sure will!" She smiled back. "And remember, Superpig, like any good actor always uses their costume to help them in their act. That's why he picked red and blue; because it's bold and loud, it helps him to be bold and loud."  
Drakey gaped in amazement at his mother. "How do you know so much, mum?"  
"It's my job, sweetheart." She smiled at him.

She leant back in the chair. "All this makes me want to get back to work too."  
"Don't do anything dangerous, mum." Drakey pleaded. "I don't want to lose you."  
"Oh, sweetie ..." She stood up.  
"Remember my pretty dresses? They're my costumes for work."

"Isn't that a night-time thing? Isn't that d-dangerous with the bad people around like you told me about?"  
She patted his head. "Drakey. I don't do silly things." She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her forehead.

Drakey frowned. "Okay, mum." He responded faintly. It didn't make sense to him but he didn't want to argue with his mother because she was so sick. "I'll get the broom and check your room so you can go to bed."

* * *

Over a week passed as Drakey and Elmo studied and learned their lines together. Because Lestrade and Doctor Watson both played opposite Sherlock Holmes, Elmo and Drakey took turns at playing the great consulting detective.

"Hello, hello hello, what have we got here?"

"Ah, the stubborn Lestrade." Elmo said in his odd very proper manner. "I take it you're on the case of the missing Irene Harker?"  
"No, we're on the case of the missing ... I say, Holmes! I know your game." Drakey announced, "And we don't need your help in such ordinary matters."

Elmo grinned slyly. "My dear Lestrade, I know about the talent that Scotland Yard has for catching bad guys, I would never want to step on your feet."  
Drakey stepped back a moment, shrugging as if to be uncomfortable. "Uh, all the same ..." He paused, "While you're here, maybe you could ..."  
"Naturally, my friend, now that you ask, I would be happy to help you find the missing emerald. I suspect very much that both cases are one and the same. Find the woman, find the emerald, and vice versa." Drakey turned slowly, watching Elmo walk very confidently to the side of the room.

He wiped his brow. "Thank goodness he's here! I'm in a right mess at the station if I can't figure this one out."

"Hey!" Elmo cheered. "You got it all right this time!"  
Drakey smiled back at Elmo. "Yeah ... I ... I kinda did, didn't I?"

He sat down on the chair behind him. It had a flower pattern and it had seen better days. Unlike his own home, this place was antique and most of it looked a bit worn, the wooden doors a bit tired, the handles were the ancient green tinged sort. The wallpaper was faded and the carpet was threadbare. Elmo sat down next to him on the chair.

The clock chimed and the tune stuck in Drakey's head yet again.  
"There's a lady whose sure all that gli-tters is gold ..." Drakey groaned. "Not again!"  
"It was granddad's favourite song for a very long time before he died."  
"Oh, I mean; I do like the song ..." Drakey agreed.

"I just rather rock and roll than hard rock."  
Elmo sighed. "Gee, there's not a lot we agree on, D."  
"I like music. You like music." That was good enough for him.  
"Hey! Can you play _Stairway to Heaven _on your piano?"

"N-no." Drakey answered timidly, "that's mum's piano. I don't touch mum's things ... unless I'm dusting or polishing it. And then I'm really careful."  
Elmo sighed. "Why? Does your mum get really cross at you or something?"  
"No." Drakey admitted. "But when I do the wrong thing and I upset her, she gets sicker. And ... and I want things nice for her, because then she doesn't feel so sick."

"Ma says it's because your dad's gone. That's why she's so sick all the time."  
"I guess. But I can't do anything about that so it's pointless to think about it."

"You know after we finish this play I'm gonna make you learn how to play _Stairway to Heaven_. It's a great big solid piano, not a delicate intergalactic transmission control panel which, if you touch it, you might lose your mum's reception to Krypton's radio stations. I've seen the construction of your sitting room. All we have to do is shut the door and the acoustics won't even carry to the first floor."  
"You ... you really think so?"  
Elmo nodded solemnly.

* * *

Drakey and Elmo sat on Elmo's bed upstairs, looking at equations. From Elmo's window all Drakey could see were trees.

"So ... what happened to your dad, Elmo?"

Elmo shrugged. "I don't remember him. Mum says he wasn't a really bad person, but I can't get a definition from her on what that actually means."  
"Your parents didn't want to be together? That's terrible!" Drakey exclaimed. "I remember my dad; he was smart like you are. He took me camping lots and told me all about plants and first aid."  
"Well, my mum is just as good as two parents."

"Oi, you two!" Elmo's mother hollered. She came upstairs and stepped into the doorway to Elmo's room. "What are you doing fighting?"

"We're not fighting." Drakey looked at Elmo in confusion.  
"Well you sounded very upset."  
"We were talking about our dads, ma."

"Oh, I understand now." Mrs. S frowned thoughtfully. "Well there's nothing wrong or right to it. Some things just aren't meant to be, kids. Come on; let's get your coats on so I can take Drakey home."

* * *

The next day Drakey pestered his mother into the sitting room to show off his part.

Drakey handed his mum the script. "Elmo's been helping me a whole lot." He grinned proudly. "He showed me m-mn-mnenomic- mnemonics! And how to turn a whole page into a single sentence inside my head! I haven't quite gotten it working for everything yet, but ... isn't that cool, mum?"

"Yes. And you have been working very hard, I know. Sylvia's been telling me all about it."

His mother laughed.  
"Why is that funny, mum?" Drakey asked nervously.  
"You just remind me of how I used to be."  
He sat down beside her, the play taking an immediate sideline in his mind. "How did you use to be, mum?"

"Well, it's the same reason I became a professional actor." She ruffled the feathers on his head. "There's just something about that feeling of recognition you get from an audience." Drakey remembered how he felt when Elmo congratulated him on remembering all his lines.

"Dad wasn't like that then?"  
"He?" She smiled. "He didn't care what people thought about him. He was a complete straight line; where he was going, where he had been." She sighed, putting her fingers to her brow. "He just kept marching on."

"Have you got another headache, mum?"  
"Oh, I'm alright, sweetie." She looked up, smiling at him. "Why don't you go ahead and show me your scene?"

Drakey cleared his throat, standing up.

"Hello, hello hello, what have we got here?"  
"Ah, the stubborn Lestrade." Drakey tucked his hand behind his back as if hiding something. "I take it you're on the case of the missing Irene Harker?"  
"No, we're on the case of the missing ... I say, Holmes! I know your game." Drakey spurted with enthusiasm, "and we don't need your help in such ordinary matters."  
Then he took a step left and replied. "My dear Lestrade, I know about the talent that Scotland Yard has for catching bad guys, I would never want to step on your feet."

He paced the room for a moment. "Uh, all the same ..." He paused to emphasize the change of tune, "While you're here, maybe you could ..."  
"Naturally, my friend, now that you ask, I would be happy to help you find the missing emerald. I suspect very much that both cases are one and the same. Find the woman, find the emerald, and vice versa." Drakey turned slowly, as if watching someone leaving the room.

He spun around on the spot, wiping his brow. "Thank goodness he's here! I'm in a right mess at the station if I can't figure this one out." Then he walked out of the room.

He ducked his head back in through the doorway. "What do you think, Mum?"

"I ... I'm a little confused, which character are you playing again?"  
"Lestrade, Mum. I told you."  
"Well, it's just that you play them both very well."  
"Well, I only have a few lines and Sherlock Holmes is more fun."

Drakey chuckled. "The way E does him is just so funny."  
"What part's Elmo playing?"  
"He's Dr. Watson."  
"Ah." She leaned back, smiling. "I'm sure he'd make an excellent Watson. He knows all those little technical bits."

"What I don't get is why E didn't get to be Holmes after all that. He's the smartest kid in the whole class and he put his hand up first. How come Finnigan gets to be Holmes?"  
"Well, Holmes has more lines, and Elmo's memory is good for technical things, not so much about lines. Besides, it's always good to have someone else share the spotlight. Lestrade is important too."

"I still don't get it, mum. Superpig doesn't need people like Dr. Watson or Lestrade."  
"But we're talking about real people, Drakey. Even the great detective Holmes is fallible sometimes. Not at his job, maybe, but at other things. And you know Superpig is shy when he's not in his bold costume."

"Why is that, mum? Why can't they make them perfect? I mean, it's all pretend anyway."  
She sat back in her chair. "If the character was perfect, the challenge would be lost."  
He thought hard about this. "Perfect people get bored because things are too easy?"  
She grabbed her handkerchief from her sleeve and coughed into it for a moment. "Sweetie, nobody's perfect. Not even your father who was as perfect as I could have wanted."

Drakey definitely did not want his mum to start talking about his father again. It made her awfully upset, and when she was upset he got upset, because she got sicker. So he thought really hard. His mother knew a lot more about Superpig and Sherlock Holmes than he did. That made her a source of information on his favourite topic. "So but Lestrade or Holmes ... which one's better?"

"Holmes and Lestrade both do their jobs well. Lestrade has a whole police force that he looks after. Holmes has Dr. Watson to look after him. Holmes comes and goes, he helps out here and there, but Lestrade is the person that everybody relies on every single day. They all help each other out."

Drakey smiled at this.  
"So, Drakey, which do you think is better?"  
"... We need them both!" Drakey exclaimed.  
"Now you understand!" His mother applauded.

"Mum, I read the whole script and it really is a lot of fun. But who is Sherlock Holmes? I mean, where does he come from?"  
"I think your father has a book with all of his stories in the library. Let's go find it, shall we?"  
"It's a book?"  
"Sure. It's a bit more difficult to read than your comics and there are not so many pictures, but it's a worthwhile read."  
"Mum! I can read! I just ..." She turned to him. "It's my daydream."  
"Ah." She nodded. "I did wonder why you carried around the same issue for so long." She held out her hand. "Come on, sweetie; let me introduce you to the greatest Consulting Detective ever written."

* * *

On Monday morning Drakey waited, feeling excruciated as he watched Elmo and Finnigan in the front of the class struggling to get through Elmo's scene. "Watson ... uh ..."

"The game is afoot!" Drakey called out.  
"Stop interrupting! That's the fourth time!" Finnigan snapped tersely.  
"Sorry. I was just trying to help." Drakey sank low in his seat.  
"I can't remember so many lines, stop badgering me! How can a game be a foot, anyway? What a stupid line."  
"It's the thing that detectives say." Drakey replied, forgetting that Finnigan had only just told him to be quiet. "I think it has something to do with chasing after them."

"Finnigan, I'm sorry." Mr. Horton said. "I thought you'd be the best at handling so many lines."  
"I hate it." He pointed accusingly at Drakey. "You know all my lines, chump. Why don't we swap?"  
The teacher was horrified. "We've only got a couple weeks left! Drakey can't learn that many lines in two weeks."  
"I know them all." Drakey reviewed Finnigan standing there. "Can you learn my lines in two weeks?"

"Sure, easy, what have you got, one scene?"  
"Two scenes."  
"I can play a stupid lummox."

"Lestrade is not stupid!" Drakey jumped up out of his chair, remembering what his mother said. "You've got to be smart to keep the peace, and he's actually really very brave to ask for help. He needs as much respect as every other character."  
"Alright, alright. Drakey, you read Finnigan's lines." Drakey stepped up next to Elmo.

"Here." Finnigan tried handing him his booklet.  
Drakey shook his head. "I have it memorised."  
Finnigan stared at Drakey. "You? You can't remember when we have a class test scheduled; you walk in with a textbook. Half the time you don't remember which day's sports day; you come in regular clothes."

"Now, Finnigan, different people remember different things. Why don't you take the copy, just in case, Drakey?"  
"Well, he'd better keep it, sir, because I left mine at home."  
"You forgot it?" Finnigan laughed. "See, Mr. Horton?"

"I didn't forget it, I know all my lines. I know all your lines. I don't need to read it."  
He turned away and looked at Elmo. "I do not wish to give away a suspicion that may prove incorrect in the end, but one can make out the facts of the case as they stand."

"Yes, following your methods for deduction, I can tell by the tracks in the mud that the kidnapper was a short duck, limping heavily under the burden of their victim."  
"Furthermore, considering the time of the broken wrist watch being only early evening, I can deduce that the victim was discreetly transported off the scene without raising any suspicion from the local foot traffic."

"Holmes, how does this all relate to the case of Harker or the Emerald?"  
"I do not have all the facts on hand as yet, but such coincidences are rare that first the lady of the house, and then her butler goes missing. Come, Watson. The game is afoot."

"Oh." Several in the class sighed. "Thank goodness that's over with."  
"Well done both of you."

Drakey beamed for a moment before his triumph was trodden on.  
"Those aren't the proper words." Finnigan sniggered.  
"That's how the real Sherlock Holmes speaks in the books!" Drakey folded his arms. "I just made it sound more like him."  
"It made sense to me." Elmo backed Drakey up.  
"Yeah, Sputters but we all know that you ..."

"That's enough, Finnigan!" Mr. Horton interrupted what would have been an insult. "You have a lot of work to do to learn all those new lines very quickly so you'd better get your head down."

"Yes, Mr. Horton, sir."

* * *

Drakey frowned, staring down at his mother on the bed. He put the dinner tray up on the bedside table.

"Mum ..." He cooed; what he hoped was a gentle wake up, and then brushed his fingers through her blonde hair. "What did doctor Spoonbill say?"

She turned over and gazed vaguely at him with unfocusing eyes, "oh, he gave me some tablets. He said I should be better in a week or so." She coughed.  
"Okay, mum. Well, just in case you're hungry, I brought some food for you. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Oh, thank you, Junior." She hugged him and sitting up with some difficulty she gestured for him to sit beside her on the bed. "Tell me more about your play, sweetie."  
"It's ..." He thought carefully about telling her about the role switch and decided against it. "Going really well. Elmo's remembering almost all his lines now that Finnigan's leaving him alone. And Preena's really good at her part too."

"That's really good, sweetie. Did you show Mr. Horton your costume?"  
"Yeah, he really liked it. He said it could have been a real Scotland Yard uniform. He wondered: if you could maybe help with a couple of the other costumes?"

"I'm sorry sweetie. I'm too tired, and the doctor says I need to stay in bed and rest for these tablets to work properly."  
"Oh ..." Drakey hesitated. The implications of this hit Drakey like a mallet made of Kryptonite hitting Superpig. First, she couldn't make a new costume for him and second, she probably wouldn't be coming to watch the play.  
"That's okay, mum. I'm sure Mr. Horton will understand." Drakey jumped up off the bed, suddenly very uncomfortable. "Anyway, you have dinner and get some more rest." He kissed her on the forehead "Love you, mum."

"I love you too, sweetie."

* * *

"Now what am I gonna do?" Drakey paced the sewing room. "I can't use the uniform for Sherlock Holmes. I need a new costume that's brown." He rummaged in the cupboard. So many fabrics! He kept digging. In the rack above his head a flash of brown caught his attention and he reached up for it. He jumped when he came in contact with fur. He pulled the other clothes away, and started laughing at what he had scared him.

"A monkey costume?" He tried to picture his mum in it and it was difficult. His mother didn't act much like a monkey at all. "She's right, though. It's the clothes that help." And Drakey wanted a Sherlock Holmes outfit. He let the other clothes swing back one at a time, hoping maybe there was already a Sherlock Holmes costume made. He went through the entire rack and was disappointed. He resumed digging underneath through the boxes of fabric, his hopes sinking lower, his fingers growing frantic. "There's gotta be ..."

He reached a large heavy wooden box further into the back of the closet. It looked like a pirate's chest. He pulled up the latch and grunted, unable to budge the lid more than a centimetre. He stood up and with both hands he raised the lid high enough that the resistance finally gave out. It fell backwards with an incredibly loud thump.

Drakey jumped, looking out into the sewing room. He wasn't supposed to make so much noise! His mum was probably scared that it was a bad guy. He raced out of the room and up the stairs. He crept to his mum's door, listening carefully.

There wasn't a sound.

Now he was worried if she was alright. Drakey cracked open the door and as quietly as he could, he stole over to the side of the bed.  
"Mum?" He whispered faintly. Then he saw her move a little. She was alright. He sighed and watched her for a long moment, calming himself down.  
"Oh, Drakey. I heard a crash." She struggled to move to face him. Her voice sounded very sleepy.  
"Sorry, mum, that was just me. I moved something really heavy and it fell down."  
"Oh, okay, I'm glad you came up here to tell me. I was ..." She sighed and fell asleep.

Drakey took a breath, feeling awful. He had to be quieter in the future.

* * *

The job took the whole weekend and hours and hours into the night. Drakey did remember what his mother had done, but he was making a different piece of clothing and he had to think really hard, drawing it on paper, playing pretend with tracing paper cut outs. Then of course, using the machine had looked easy, but it was actually quite tricky and required all his concentration to get right especially making sure he sewed only on the reverse sides.

But when he was finished he put it on and looked into the mirror, eyeing off the stitching critically. It's not too bad ..." He took it off, looking for that stray thread he'd seen. There was still something wrong with it, but he'd been staring too long at it to figure it out for himself. "Maybe Mr. Horton can help."

* * *

After class at lunchtime, Drakey hung back.

"Mr. Horton, can you help me with this?" He handed the brown costume to his teacher. "There's something wrong and I don't know what it is to fix it."  
"Well, what does your mother say?"

"Mum's too sick."  
"Okay, so where did it come from?"  
"I watched mum last time. I made it out of some fabric in mum's box. Have I done it wrong?"

Mr. Horton struggled with finding something adequate to say. "Well, how about we see by trying it on?" He helped Drakey into it. "That actually looks pretty good." He stood back with a shocked expression on his face.  
"What's wrong with it, sir? I want it to be right."

"How long have you been working on this, Drakey?"  
"I want it to be right!" Drakey said loudly. Then he sobbed. "I'll keep trying until I get it right. It doesn't look right and I can't figure out why."

"I think if anything what you're missing is the hat."  
"A hat?" Drakey scratched his head. "Like my cap?"  
"I think I can draw it for you. Maybe someone has a hat you can borrow." He grabbed his notepad from the drawer and a pencil.

"I'll make it. How hard can a hat be? It's really small."  
"Drakey, take it easy. It's not the end of the world, even if you have no hat at all."  
"Mum says the costume is really important for the actor to do their job properly. And mum's a really good actor, so she should know."

"I can see you've got your heart set on this one."  
"It makes her happy when we talk about the play." Drakey got back out of the costume.  
Mr. Horton handed Drakey the piece of paper. "You know, it's important for you to be happy too, Drakey. Haven't you been having fun working on the play?"

"Yes," Drakey answered in a shaking voice, "but I ..." He stopped, fighting back tears. "Thanks, Mr. Horton." He stuffed the costume back into his bag with the piece of paper and ran out through the doorway.


	3. The Case of the Ghost and the Baby

_A/N: Okay, no, I only just wrote most of this with basically only one edit getting it right to post here and so no it doesn't make a whole lot of contiguous sense as a story because I haven't actually tried but yes it is a bit of fun. If you just take it as a bunch of sketches in chronological sequence, you should be right. The first two 'Parts' are 'old story' and relate to the previous chapter's events because I received a question of how the events of that chapter came out, so here they are._

_A/N: Tossed references: _

_Thank you to Led Zeppelin, obviously __Disney who owns Darkwing Duck, Ray Parker Jnr for the Ghostbusters theme and the other guys responsible for putting out the record in the 1980s. _

_Yes, I just said 'record'. It's the big black round thing that comes out of the big flat square thing. You traditionally put it on a device called a 'turn-table'. Providing the machine is connected to power this record will spin around when you put the needle which should be attached to the end of the mechanical arm component down into the grooves. Also, providing the unit in question has functioning speakers correctly attached, it will make noise as the needle passes along the grooves of the spinning record. Depending on the particular record versus your particular musical taste, this may actually prove to be a pleasant and delightfully retro experience for you. _

* * *

**The Strange Case of the Ghost and the Baby**

* * *

**Part 1: The Play's the Thing**

* * *

Elmo walked into the school gym's changing room and crossed the way to Drakey who was sitting there, waiting for everyone to arrive. "Hey, D."

"Hi, E. Can I get a ride home with you after the show?"  
"And what would be your contingency plan in the event I actually said 'no'?"  
Drakey shrugged. "Sick bay has a bed."  
"D!" Elmo shook him. "Your mum's been worrying about you."  
"Sure, sure she has, your mum worries about you too."

"No; you just left this afternoon, she said you left home really early."  
"Yeah." Drakey shrugged. "I don't want to go out walking after dark; mum'd freak big time. And I had to come in to do the play."

Elmo shook his head and ran out of the room. "I found him! He's fine; he's in here."  
"Who's he talking to?" Drakey asked himself as he pulled out his costume from his bag, reviewing his new hat critically. "At least I won't get cold wearing this lot." He stood up and walked into a cubicle to get changed.

He stepped out, considering himself in the mirror as more children came into the area.  
"Indeed." He remarked in a posh manner to his reflection. "Indeed." He raised an eyebrow. "A missing emerald and a missing woman, her missing butler and a broken watch. All in a relative short space of time." He tapped his beak.

"Drakey, did you bring any makeup for yourself?"

He turned to look at Preena. "Your logic escapes me, young lady. Why would I have makeup?"

"Yes, he does."

Drakey looked up as his mother walked into the room. He gaped at her in shock. "You shouldn't be up, mum!" He fretted. "It's too dangerous! You need to be resting."  
"I'm fine!" She said somewhat crossly, looking at the other children around them. "Come over here." She led him off to a corner in front of the mirrors. "That's not the Lestrade costume I made for you, honey."

"Finnigan didn't like his lines, so we swapped." He pointed at Finnigan over in the other corner, being mollycoddled by his own mother.  
"But that can't be Finnigan's costume you're wearing; he's twice your size around the middle." She poked his stomach.  
"I made it mum. I found some of your fabric."  
"From my supplies cupboard?"  
He nodded, then he mentioned the highlight of his experience to her. "There was a bear in there."  
"It wasn't a real bear."  
"I know that, but it was very real when it touched me."

"You made this all by yourself?"  
"I know it's not very good."  
"No, it's very good. Especially on your first try, honey." She picked up his hat from his hands. "I especially like your hat. It looks just right." She put it down on the sink and then unzipped the cosmetic bag sitting beside it.

"What's the makeup for, mum?"  
"It's so that people can see you better from a distance." She began drawing lines and rubbing powder into his feathers. "Did the teacher explain how you'll have to speak up very loud?"  
"Yes."  
"Try to remember to speak up loudly, honey, otherwise people won't hear you in the back. No whispering."  
"Sherlock Holmes doesn't whisper!" Drakey claimed boldly.

Then he looked up at his mum and hugged her tightly. "Thanks for coming, mum."  
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, sweetheart."

* * *

**Part 2: Stairway to Heaven**

* * *

_Another Day ..._

"Drakey?" His mother's voice rang out over the sound of the instruments.

Elmo hid the guitar he'd brought over behind the sitting room's sofa and Drakey lowered the cover of the piano.  
"Ouch"! He hissed as he got his fingers caught, but it was worth it that the wooden lid didn't make a loud noise coming down.

The door opened and Drakey's mum looked in. "What in the world are you two doing in here?"  
"Just playing some music, mum. We're going through the record collection. Were we being too loud?" Drakey asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

"I don't hear anything now." Her eyes roved to the record player beyond Drakey.

"We're just deciding on a new one to play, mum. Did you want to sit down and listen with us?"  
"Uh, no." She smiled at them. "For a moment there ..." She shrugged. "Never mind." She closed the door.

"Phew, that was close." Drakey breathed.

"Why didn't you tell the truth, D?"  
"Are you kidding?" Drakey whimpered. "E, you need to know the right person to tell about things. The consequences could be disastrous if you tell the wrong person the wrong things. Mum could have a heart attack or something if she knew what we were doing with grandfather's piano and it'd be all my fault." He grabbed a record from the pile and put it in the machine.

The upbeat sound of electronic beats bounced across the room. _"If there's something strange ... In your neighbourhood ... Who you gonna call?"_

"My ma." Elmo answered the song's question with a half-grin. "But it'd have to be pretty strange to out-do you and your mum, D." He shook his head.

* * *

**Part 3: The Delivery**

* * *

_Another Day ..._

The doorbell rang. Drakey looked up from his homework in the study and raced to the door.

He peered through the mail slit. "Hello?" He called out to the portly man dressed in navy.

"Are you Drake Mallard?"  
"I could be." He replied elusively.  
"Well, I've got a package for you if you are."

"Who from?"  
"Gee, wizz." The navy guy grunted. "Uh, Catchit and Runn Solicitors. You into stamp collecting kid?"  
"No." Drakey said sulkily.  
"Well, there's plenty on this thing to start one up."

Drakey opened the deadbolt, opening the door as far as the chain would go.

"Sign on the next line, kid."  
"Why do I need to sign?"  
"So there's proof in the eyes of the law that I did the right thing and didn't nick off with your package, kid." He handed the package and the clipboard to Drakey through the space between the door.

Drakey wrote his name down on the page.

"From the stamps I'd say this thing's come all the way from Swansylvania or someplace fancy like that."  
"Thank you." Drakey handed back the clipboard.  
"Have a nice day, kid."

Drakey held the package against his chest as he deadbolted the door again and went back to his place in the study. He sat down in front of his homework and shook the yellow package. It was an odd shape, he pressed his fingers around the contents. Long and narrow, flat and hard. It was heavy, so it was definitely solid and not easy to break. He looked at the writing on it again.

"Well, I am Drake Mallard." He shrugged, feeling in some way that this actually didn't belong to him. "I'm the only Drake Mallard here." He turned over the package. "Catchit and Runn Solicitors 8/5 Cage Street, Duckstat, Swansylvania."

The duckling pried open the package from the side and peered inside. From within the bubble wrap he pulled out a silk sock. He opened it and pulled out the contents. "Keen gear!" His eyes bugged. "A harmonica!" He stared at it. "There's writing on it." He squinted at the swirling letters in the gold plating. "That's my name!"

Trembling he put the harmonica back into its silk sock and put it on the table. He rubbed his forehead. "Why would someone send me something from all the way up there? Maybe there's a note." He looked back into the bubble wrap lined package and dug out a piece of notepaper.

_**Dear Drake,**_

_**How are you, old friend? I hope this  
letter finds you well. **_

_**I'm sorry it took so long to find, but  
here it is at last!**__**  
**__**It finally turned up in an auction house  
of all **__**places, and I had to wrangle a  
crazy old **__**duck with a cane for it! But  
luckily I **__**outbid him at only a hundred  
Drachmas b**__**efore he turned his beak up  
and said **__**it was **__**'A bargain no longer'  
**__**so to put a long story short, you don't  
owe me anything extra for the find.**_

_**P.S. If Jr's anything like his old man,  
**__**I'd go with the outdoor jungle gym,  
**__**Not the indoor computer console.**_

_**Your Friend,**_

_**Salem Atropine**_

**Representative Partner**

**Catchit and Runn Solicitors  
****8/5 Cage Street, Duckstat, Swansylvania  
****20a Plate Street, London, England  
****7 Diamond Terrace, Ducklehoff, Parrotia  
********Level 2, 108 Bats Avenue, Lillipula City, Cheront, America**  


Drakey stared at the note. He pulled out the harmonica and looked at it again. "A hundred Drachmas?" He considered the shine on it. "That sounds like a lot of money. It must be made of gold." He put it to his mouth and blew across it, making different sounds. He looked up at the ceiling. "Thanks, dad, it's just what I wanted!"

* * *

**Part 4: Babysitting**

* * *

_Two Days Later ..._

Drakey unlocked the front door and carefully hung up his bag. He walked in through to the kitchen.

"Mum!" He exclaimed nervously; "what are you doing in here; you're not supposed to be cooking."  
She turned from the freezer, pulling out a small plastic package. "It's not for us, silly, it's for Peachy."  
"Peachy?"

"I'll just put it here to thaw for a bit." She put the package on the sink.  
He stepped up to it to see what it was. "What!" Drakey spluttered. "Why have we got wild mice in our freezer, mum?"  
"It's for Peachy, dear, I'm looking after him for Jose Cariboussi. Come on, I'll introduce you." She took his hand and led him into the study.

Suddenly there was a gigantic aquarium sitting under the windowsill, filled not with water but a long brown stick.

"Peachy, dear." Drakey's mother cooed as she delved her hands into the tank. "I want you to meet my son."

The brown splotchy thing moved, slowly bending and twisting around her fingers and along her arms.  
"Drakey, this is Peachy."  
Drakey stared blankly at the large moving thing.  
"Peachy works with mummy, don't you, Peachy?" She looked up at Drakey with a content smile on her face. "Peachy's such a good boy."

"He is?" Drakey frowned. "You've never called me a good boy, mum."  
"Oh, yes, of course you are, honey." She tsked. "Don't mind him, Peachy; he's just a little jealous. Come on, say hello, Drakey."

Drakey stepped forwards. "I'm not jealous." He clenched his beak staring at the snake staring back at him.  
"Aren't you going to pat him, Drakey?"  
"I've got a bad feeling about this." Drakey frowned. "I need to get dinner started; I'm starving."

* * *

**Part 5: Fight**

* * *

"Can't you be a bit friendlier, Drakey?"

He frowned, looking up at his mother from the meatloaf on his plate.  
"He is a guest."  
"He can be a guest all he likes, mum; just so long as he stays away from me."  
"Is it because he's a snake?"  
"No. It's because he's spoilt rotten!"  
"Why, how can you say that?"  
"I can see it in his eyes!" Drakey stabbed savagely at his broccoli.

They sat in silence for the rest of the meal.

His mother came around and picked up the plates, rinsing them in the sink. "Oh, dear." She put her hands firmly on the bench top, leaning heavily.

Drakey jumped up, "mum, are you alright?"  
"I-I'm just a little faint, oh."

He helped her onto the nearest kitchen chair.

"Oh, that's a little better." She sighed. "It's Peachy's dinner time too, honey, could you go feed him for me? I don't think I could manage it."

Drakey straightened. "Maybe he hugged you a bit hard last time." He snorted and grabbed the plastic wrapper. "The cookbooks don't have field mice in them anywhere, how does he like it cooked?"  
"Not cooked, sweetie; just thawed."  
"Raw!" Drakey put his hand reflexively to his stomach. "Won't he get sick?"  
"No, honey. Just don't let him choke on the wrapper."

"Yee-uck." Drakey blanched and walked out of the room.

He stepped into the study and the first thing he noticed was the empty aquarium. "Hello-o?" He moved more cautiously, looking around. "Peek-a-boo?" he looked under the table, "as they say in baby talk."

There was a sound from above his head and he jumped to a stand.

"Oh, no! Peachy, that's mine!" He exclaimed.

Wrapped around his schoolbooks and hanging over the drawer knob and draped across the back of the chair and hooked around the table lamp was his mum's friend's snake and it was attempting to strangle and imbibe his very own personal harmonica.

"That's not food, Peachy!" He begged, grappling it away. "My dad gave that to me!" He sobbed and pulled it away from the snake's mouth. He clutched it to his chest and could barely see the snake through his tears. "Look, here!" He picked up the plastic bag and ripped it open. "See, I was bringing you food!" He shoved the thawed mouse into the snake's mouth, picked up his harmonica and ran blindly out of the room.

* * *

**Part 6: Troubled**

* * *

_The Next Afternoon ..._

Drakey recounted his ordeal of the night before to the black haired girl sitting next to him on the waiting chairs.

"Did she start doing that baby voice?"  
"Yes, she did." Drakey grimaced.  
Sara gagged. "Is she spoiling him rotten?"  
"Yes. Hugs and special food: the lot. If the house burnt down, he'd be her first pick." Drakey wrapped his arms around his knees. "It's not fair; she's my mother, not his!"

"Don't worry, Drakey." Sara patted his shoulder. "My parents were like that after Amelia hatched. They got over it."  
"But we're not related."  
"Kids get adopted too, you know, when their parents die or something."  
"Do you think that's what happened to Mr. Cariboussi?"

"I dunno; could be."  
"But ... then Peachy doesn't have a family to go back to."  
Sara shrugged. "I can only suggest possible explanations."  
"I never thought about that ..." Drakey looked away from her in thought.

"The important thing is that you calm down, Drakey; especially when you're going to see your specialist right now. When you get home, you can have another go at seeing eye to eye with your ... uh, new little brother."

"Size wise he's bigger than me." Drakey crossed his arms stubbornly across his chest.  
"Yeah, but you don't get confused between a harmonica and a wild mouse." She tapped her head. "Amelia drank two of my experiments before dad agreed to put a lock on my bedroom door."

"Is she alright?"  
"Oh, that was a while ago now." Sara said indifferently, "anyway, you rescued your harmonica and you rescued Peachy from terrible indigestion and a trip to the hospital to get it out of his stomach. So really, Peachy's doing a lot better right now with you as his big brother than Amelia was when all her down turned orange and she started blowing bubbles."  
"Yikes!" Drakey stared at Sara in horror.  
"Funny, that's what mum said at the time." She smiled calmly back at him.  
"Amelia's alright now, though?"  
"Oh, yes."

He sighed in relief. "You're a very clever person to make her turn orange, Sara." Drakey considered her. "What are you doing in here for?"

"That's just the thing, see, I'm not clever really." Sara frowned. "The teacher says I'm going to be put back a year if I can't get my test scores up."  
"Would that put you in my grade?"  
"I suppose so." Sara sighed. "But dad says the teacher doesn't know anything, so that's why I'm in here."  
"Doesn't know anything?" Drakey gaped at her. "But the teacher's an adult."  
"Yes, but dad explained it to me. Some adults aren't as clever as they think they are, and not every adult knows what's best for you."  
"Now that's something to think about." Drakey mused.  
"Funny, that's exactly what I said!" Sara blinked at him.

"You aren't going to see doctor Clyde, are you, Sara?"  
"No, why?"  
"She's horrible. She asks all these dumb questions and forces you to play with dolls."  
"Dolls?" Sara raised an eyebrow. "That reminds me. The last doll I had flew approximately fifteen point five metres before it landed on the road and got smushed by Mrs. Dogson's car. It was a very successful experiment however because of the slightly inconvenient car incident, I was unable to measure the exact distance of the flight accurately and mum won't buy me another doll so I can repeat the experiment again."

Drakey chuckled at that. "You should come and play with Elmo and me sometime. I could show you the rocket powered hula-hoop we invented."  
"Sounds intriguing." Sara smiled back at him. "I would love to."

"Sara Bellum?" A man's voice called out.

"Oh, see you later, Drakey."  
"Yeah, Sara."

"Drakey Mallard?" Mrs. Clyde's voice rang out, making him shudder.  
"Yes, Mrs. Clyde." He got up and reluctantly followed behind her.

* * *

**Part 7: Haunted**

* * *

Drakey stepped into the office, horribly nervous.

"Oh, its okay sweetheart, you've been here before. You remember the last time? We had a tea party and ..."  
"I remember."  
"Why don't you tell me the story then, Drakey?"  
"But you remember it too." He frowned at her. "So I'm telling you a story you already know about. That'd be very boring for both of us."

"Alright, why don't you talk to me about what happened last night? I don't know that one."  
"Last night?"  
"Your mother told me you were very upset."  
"Did she tell you why?"  
"She heard you say your father gave you something, but I'd much rather hear the story from you since she wasn't in the room with you when it happened."

He sat down on the patient chair. "Peachy made me upset." He confessed. "But you said it's normal to get upset sometimes. And I forgive him now because he didn't know what he was doing and he's missing Mr. Cariboussi."  
"What was Peachy saying to you that got you so upset?"

Drakey eyed Mrs. Clyde suspiciously. "Peachy doesn't talk, Mrs. Clyde. He's a _Morelia spilota_. All he does with his mouth is swallow things."  
"A mor-elia, huh, ok. So he swallows what sorts of things?"

"Food." Drakey frowned at her. "He should be only eating food. But he's a baby, so he doesn't always understand the rules properly."  
"That's a very adult way to look at it, Drakey."  
He eyed her suspiciously. "But?"  
"You haven't told me what the fight was about yet. I'm still waiting."

"My harmonica." He pulled it out of his pocket. "Peachy tried to eat my harmonica." He held it out to her and she looked at it. "I only just got it from dad."

"Just? Um, when did your father give this to you, Drakey?"  
"A few days ago; it's come all the way from Swansylvania." He looked at it affectionately. "He paid a hundred Drachmas for it. How much is that, Mrs. Clyde; is that a lot?"  
"Uh, y-yes, I think so, it sounds like quite a bit, Drakey." Mrs. Clyde frowned distractedly. "Drakey, I think you might be a bit confused."

"What do you mean?"  
"Maybe you're remembering something that happened a long time ago, and it feels like just a few days? Memories can do that to people, it's a normal thing."  
"No, dad gave it to me three days ago!" Drakey repeated. He felt himself getting hot under the collar from this discussion. "Look, it has my name on it!"  
"You know that your name is the same as your father's, right, Drakey?"  
"Well, yes, but he's not here anymore!" Drakey shouted.

Mrs. Clyde sat back. "Drakey, can you hear what you're saying?"  
"Yes, Mrs. Clyde." He answered soberly.  
"Drakey, what do you mean when you say 'he's not here anymore'?"

Drakey stared at her. "Because he's dead of course!" He slapped his head angrily. "He got stuck in a burning building trying to help people and he's never coming back again." His voice ended in a hoarse whisper.  
"When did this happen, Drakey?"  
"I can't remember." Drakey said in a mumble. "A long time ago."  
"So you see; he couldn't have given you this harmonica just the other day because he hasn't been here for a long while before that."

"But he did!" Drakey said loudly again. "He paid a hundred Drachmas for it in Swansylvania. I signed a piece of paper for it. You can ask the delivery company man; he was wearing navy clothes and I signed his paper to say I got it and it was just the other day. That's evidence!"

Mrs. Clyde sighed and wrote into her book. "Drakey I'd like you to meet one of my friends, I think he can help you with your-."  
"No!" Drakey quacked. "You haven't even looked at the evidence. I can prove every bit of it; Peachy doesn't eat paperwork because its not the right shape so it'll still be there at home, I have the harmonica safe with me here, and the delivery company has my name on their clipboard." He clenched his beak. "And if you can't believe me with all that evidence, then you're not as clever as you think you are." He pointed to her accusingly. He jumped off the chair.

"Drakey? Where are you off to?"  
"I'm going to visit the delivery company and get a copy of that page that shows my signature." He took a breath. "And then I'll take it home with me and staple it to the envelope and put it back in the drawer as proof to myself that I'm not crazy and then I'm never coming back to visit you, Mrs. Clyde. Goodbye." He finished his speech and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

* * *

**Part 8: Fledgling Ducktective**

* * *

Drakey stepped out into the corridor. He spied a black swish of hair turning around the corridor. "Sara! Wait up!" He raced to her side. "Have you finished already?"  
"Oh, yes." She frowned slightly at him. "You're all red in the face."  
"I'm alright. How'd it go for you?"

"The doctor say's I'm visually impaired and that's why my grades are so bad; because I can't see what I'm doing properly and that's why I have headaches and probably why so many of my experiments misbehave too."  
"You mean that a pair of glasses will get your grades back up?"  
"And my experiments flying again! Woo!" She laughed ecstatically. "How about you, Drakey?"  
"It's been really good for me too!" He smiled back at her. "I signed a piece of paper three days ago and once I get a copy of it ..." he took an excited breath "it will prove ... _I'm not crazy_!"  
"Oh, that's wonderful news!" Sara smiled back at him. "We'd better hurry and find it then." She grabbed his hand and they ran out of the building, laughing with their good luck.

* * *

_A/N: Oh, hi. That was me extrapolating a few things from Drake Mallard's adult quirks. The poor kid's stomach is not his strongest asset. He has to have had a real-life experience which has created the negative mental association he has when it comes to eating little things whole, and most people connect their person of affection back to previous familiar affections and Solid Evidence is the unswerving answer when a person's reality comes into question._

_A/N: *pouts* Little kid's smarter than me; not fair!_

_Further on my idea on the affection thing: Morgana in some way must have something in common to the significant mother figure in Drake's life unless he really can't stand his mother, then his mother would be a fair opposite of Morgana and we already know Drake's only grudge harbouring is done against criminals and his competititors (Grizlykoff and Gizmoduck) so therefore Morgana should be comparable to his mother in some fashion. I'm not saying this as a rule for human nature or quoting some textbook or anything, I'm just going off several discussions with real people as they do their own comparing of their life partner to the people that raised them. The most recent one was 'I couldn't stand my father, but my grandparents lived with us while I was growing up and my grandfather was a lovely person. I'm very fortunate that my partner is like my grandfather.' _

_If, therefore. _

_Drake meets Morgana and one of the first comments out of his mouth is 'Morgana sure is something. Isn't she, Launchpad?' Now Launchpad doesn't see what the attraction is on the face value of it. All he recognises is the bats, the venomous spiders that only just tried to eat him and the blissful look on his friend's face. I think its safe to assume that Darkwing doesn't NOT notice these things. So when Launchpad replies with a hesitant 'something d-ifferent' it also is casting straight back to Drake's brain and what influences his opinion. The echo, the connection, the familiarity. _

_And so I wrote about it._


	4. The Fallen Apple Syndrome

_A/N: Whoa, my paragraphs stayed put! This is extraordinary! Uploaded in like ... ten minutes!_

* * *

**The Fallen Apple Syndrome**

* * *

"Ye-es!" Drakey cheered at himself as he collected his evidence onto the desk and stapled them together in triumph. "I am a sane person!" He tucked the papers into the filing drawer in the desk and locked it with the key.

"Oh, Drakey! Drakey, there you are." He looked up as his mum came into the room followed by Mrs. S. and Elmo. "Where've you been?"  
"I've been gathering evidence. I'm not crazy, mum. I don't need to go back to Mrs. Clyde."  
"Mrs. Clyde called about an hour ago after you stormed out."  
"I didn't storm out." He frowned.  
"She said you didn't want to go back."  
"I don't need to go back."

His mother sighed and turned her head to Mrs. S. "Sylvia?"  
Mrs Sputterspark came forwards and knelt down in front of him. "Drakey, what's all this about ghosts?"  
Drakey scratched his head. "It's a movie? They go around catching ghosts. They've got these really cool-."  
"Stop. Drakey. Mrs Clyde says you think you're being haunted."  
"That's ridiculous!" Drakey exclaimed.  
"She says you think you got the harmonica after your father died."  
"No; he gave it to me a long time after he died. It was only three days ago."  
"Drakey, you're saying a ghost gave you the harmonica."  
Drakey snorted. "No, it was Mr. Atropine and I'm pretty sure he's not a ghost because he had to wrestle someone in an auction house."  
"So then Mr. Atropine gave it to you?"  
"But he only did it because dad asked for him to find it. Mr. Atropine doesn't even know dad's not alive anymore. He asked if he was well." Drakey shook his head. "I'm sure if there was a ghost, I'd be the first to find it because I dust every room at least once a month and there's no ectoplasm anywhere!" He crossed his arms. "Mrs. Clyde is just pretending to try to get you to make me go back there, mum. You don't believe I'm haunted, do you, Mrs. S.?"  
Mrs. Sputterspark smiled in relief. "If you don't think you are, I'll take your word for it, sweetie." She turned back to Drakey's mum, "you agree, don't you, Eleanor?"  
"Yes, and I'm very glad to hear it."

"Mum?" Drakey crossed the room and held up his harmonica for her. "Is this my name or dad's name?"  
She took it into her hand and looked at the writing on it. "So this was what the fuss was about last night." She took a breath. "Yes, honey." She handed it back to him. "You're absolutely right."  
"Who does it belong to?"  
"You."  
"But whose name is on it?"  
"That's Drake Mallard's name." She ruffled the feathers on his head.  
"Alright." Drakey frowned in annoyance, acutely aware his mother was playing a game with him. "But did it use to be dad's?"  
"He mentioned he'd lost it somewhere in Europe before we'd met. It was very special because his father gave it to him when he was a little boy."  
"And he spent a hundred Drachmas to find it again."  
"No, sweetie." She shook her head. "Your father paid a lot more to Mr. Atropine to find it ..." Tears filled her eyes. "Your father told me that he wanted to give it to you for your next birthday. That's why he asked for Mr. Atropine's help."

"Ha!" Drakey exclaimed, jumping up and down in triumph. "I knew it! Mr. Atropine talking about dad's question about jungle gyms and computer consoles was the obvious giveaway! Elmo!" He grabbed Elmo and shook him. "Don't you see? A jungle gym would be great. A computer game would be cool. But a harmonica is perfect! And!" Drakey raced across the room to the aquarium. "Are you listening too, Peachy? My dad really was clever, because he knew exactly what I needed!" Drakey beamed at everyone in the room.

"And you want to know something else? I'm going to be just like dad when I grow up!" He laughed and hugged his mother. "Elmo?" He spurted across the room again to his friend. "We can play at your house now because I have less to carry!" Then he ran to the door.  
"Drakey? Where are you going, honey?"  
"I can't stay inside mum! I'm too excited; I'll break something! I'm going for a run now. Love you, bye!"  
"Be back before it gets dark!"

"I will!" He shut the front door behind him and dashed off down the footpath.

* * *

_A/N: This scene ... er ... I mean chapter, is the result of me only just watching the 'Going Nowhere Fast' episode from Darkwing Duck. _

_A/N: The differential between this falling apple and his mother is like: whoa. _

_A/N: Also this scene has one of my favourite words to describe it: 'continuity'! Go back, where is it, match it up, have a look-see! What I fail in contiguousness I make up for in continuity! Wahoo! _


	5. Off The Deep End Pt 1

_A/N: This is not a polished story. I'm just __sketching my back story idea. _

* * *

**Drake Off The Deep End**

* * *

_Tuesday..._

"Oh, come on!" Drake struggled against his emotions as he searched the house for his mother's paperwork. He'd never looked for it before, because he'd always expected his mother to be there with him.  
"Come on, what would Sherlock Holmes do?" He tapped his beak. "Lets see: personality. Psychological characteristics." He blinked. "The piano!"

He raced out of his mother's bedroom, every step making him more certain that this would be where it was.

He opened up the stool and dug through the music books. Bingo.

He sat down on the sofa and began going through the paperwork.

"What ... what's this?" Trembling, he opened up the coroner's report.

**'Drake Mallard Senior: Cause of death: Unconfirmed, body badly burned in fire at the scene. Probable cause of death: gunshot wound to the head.'**

"So he didn't make a mistake ..."

Drake's eyes filled with tears. Total betrayal. "You lied." His mother, the great actress, had lied to him his whole life. He flicked through the papers. There was another letter with the coroner's report made out in her handwriting and addressed to 'Junior'. The bundle of papers slipped out of his fingers and scattered everywhere. He drew his knees up into a ball and hid his face in his arms, crying.

The phone rang. He gulped, pulling himself together. Reluctantly he reached for the phone on the hall table.  
"Mr. Mallard, sir?"  
"Yes?" He forced himself to put on his best act.  
"It's Runn, here from the solicitor's office, sir. Have you found your mother's papers?"  
"Yes!" He replied, making his voice as stable as he could make it, however the effect also made him sound abrupt.  
"Would you like to come in to our offices tomorrow?"  
"Tomorrow? Sure."  
"What time, sir? Nine o'clock?"  
"I can't. I have to go to school."  
"Sir, in times like these, people usually take time off from their normal lives to cope with these tragedies."  
"No, I mean yes, I know that!" Drake suddenly found himself very angry, and resisting the urge to tell Runn that he, Drake Mallard wasn't stupid. "I have to go to school and get the principal to give me the time off."  
"Very well, sir. Shall we make it for eleven o'clock then?"  
"Yeah, that should give me enough time. How hard can it be?"

* * *

_Wednesday..._

Drake sat in the principle's office, the school councillor stood to the left in front of the bookcase.  
"No, sir. I do not need help!" Drake gritted. No way was he going back to another councillor.  
"Drake, we understand that you are going through some ..."  
"My mother has been sick for a very long time." Drake stated the obvious. Clearly their powers of deduction were somewhat dim, even for teachers. "I am quite capable of taking care of myself. And I do not need ..." He clenched his beak, glaring silently at the councillor.  
"You're a very angry young duck."  
"There's injustice everywhere, under your very noses, unscrupulous and wanton acts of disgrace and disservice ..."  
"Drake, calm down! Please."  
He stood up. "I am perfectly capable of looking after myself! I already sign my own excursion slips, I only told you this because I need a week off school."  
"Well ... have you got any friends to support you, what about Mrs Sputterspark? Your mother was friends with her. Perhaps ..."  
"I talk to Mrs Sputterspark sometimes." Drake admitted, throwing them a bone. "I go around to see her every few weeks."  
"What about Elmo?"  
"Sure, we've been friends since primary school." He shrugged non-committedly. "I'm friends with everyone."

"Well, perhaps a friend is what you need to talk to about this?"  
"I don't want anybody knowing about this. Please, don't tell anybody. I can deal with it, I'm fine. I can look after myself, I don't need help. Can I go now? I have to talk to mum's- I mean my solicitors in the city. I've spent all morning talking to you and I'm going to be late if I don't leave right now."  
"Please, at least talk with Mrs Sputterspark about this."  
Drake stood up. "Fine, I will. She's coming to the funeral on Friday." He opened the door in front of him and walked out of the room.

* * *

_Thursday..._

"Elmo?" The boy finished getting his sneakers off, setting them neatly beside his mother's rubber soled shoes. He stepped inside.  
"Yes, Ma?" He smiled at her, walking into the lounge. The furniture was rickety and ancient. This had been his great-grandparents' farm, now it was a big and empty house filled with only two descendants in possession of an unusually large jungle for a backyard and no interest in farming whatsoever.  
"Are you coming to the funeral tomorrow?"  
"What funeral?" He raised an eyebrow. "Wait, tomorrow? But that's Friday, I can't take a day off school. And year ten trial exams are next month, I must be prepared."  
"Oh, okay then, hon. It's up to you." She kissed him on the forehead. "Come wash your hands and help me with the dinner."

* * *

_Friday..._

Drake watched the coffin being lowered into the great abyss of a hole. It seemed like his whole life was going down the hole too.  
"Oh, Drake ..."  
"Don't, Mrs S. I can't." He closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. He looked back at the scarce few black clothed people around the place. He fought the reality of the situation back. It was not appropriate to cry in front of other people. They'd seize that as another weakness and he had too many of them exposed to the world already.

He stared at the double headstone; only one side of it was filled at the moment.

**In Loving Memory**

**Drake Mallard Snr.**  
**Devoted Husband, Father & Firefighter**

The minute picture in the middle showed a helmet and crossed axes.

His father was a Firefighter and homicide victim. The criminal had probably set the fire as well. That was why his mother was paranoid about burglars for all those years. She'd been worried that whoever killed his father would return to finish his family off.

"I know it might not make sense right now."  
"It makes perfect sense." He gazed down at the dark hole with the coffin suspended. The brown wooden box successfully blocked the viewers from seeing the fact of how terribly deep it actually went. "She was sick for a long time."  
"You did everything you could. Come on to my place, D. I'll get you a nice cup of coffee and some fresh scones."  
"Sure. Thanks."

He got into her old XB Falcon.  
"I love your car, Mrs S." He listened to the old V8 engine roar to life.  
"Sure, I had to get something out of him, and I knew I wouldn't get any child support money."  
"Elmo's dad hasn't paid you at all? But don't you have a court agreement?"  
"Now, don't fuss, Drake. My goodness, you're so obsessed with rules."  
He sat forwards, watching the road and the sidewalk, the houses going by. "That's what keeps life from falling apart."  
"I moved back in with my parents, and inherited the house when they passed on, my brother got their investments. I love my work. Elmo and me, we do fine." She sighed. "He doesn't talk about you anymore. You're not talking to each other, are you?"  
"I'm ... I've been ... busy." Drake stumbled with the reason, and they drove on to the farmhouse.

He stepped out of the car onto the long driveway. He looked around. "You could get a lot of money if you subdivided."  
Mrs Sputterspark laughed. "Oh, Drakey, it's already subdivided! The story goes: 'Great-grandad had a curdled fit when grandma married a Sputterspark. He said, "What good is he, this stringy sort of thought; are you to plough the field ye'self?" Said she, "what? No, my man'll invent some'att to plough it fir me." ' "  
"Did he?"  
"Oh, yes, but they grew bored of farming, and so they split up the land when the offer came. Make it all houses around us as far as the eye can see. Come on in, let's have some tea." She winked at him.  
Drake smiled as they went inside and she put the kettle on. Mrs S knew how much he loved poetry.

* * *

"You vent when you're at school." Elmo's mother stated as she handed him a cup.  
"Did the councillor tell you that?"  
"No, Elmo did."  
"I can't help it." He sighed. "I hate how I couldn't keep my mother alive."  
"I'm worried about you, Drake. Now you're all on your own, I wish you had an uncle or someone you could stay with. Why don't you move in with Elmo and me?"  
He blanched. "No, thanks, Mrs S. I'm fine on my own. Really."  
She gave him a quick hug. "You're stubborn and brave. Your father would be very proud."  
"Thanks." He looked away from her, his eyes tearing up.

"You know what really gets to me about all this, Mrs S? I can't stop people from dying!"  
"Oh, D, nobody really can."  
"I don't care about them. It's me! I don't have the power."  
"Well ... Maybe you have the power to care and to try. Maybe that's the important part."  
"Trying isn't good enough!" Drake quacked at her. "Trying will get me killed out there in the real world. I might not even see it coming because I won't recognise it."  
"Then get good at it. Study for it. Learn everything you can."  
"My grades are too low." Drake countered bitterly. "Somewhat suboptimal to put it politely."  
"But that's just school, dear."

Drake looked at Mrs Sputterspark.  
"Mrs S! You're a Quantum Physics lecturer at the St Canard University! Your son tops nearly everything but sport. I have never gotten anything much more than a pass. Except sport ... And drama."  
"You can do anything you want, Drake. Your ... you're a clever young duck. Anyone who knows you well enough can see that. You just have to apply yourself. If you can't get your grades up by graduation in two years, you can just go to night school. You can do anything you set your mind to ... what sounds like a good thing, what would you see yourself enjoying doing? You want to save lives ... do you want to be a doctor, perhaps?"  
"I'd like to be a detective like Sherlock Holmes."  
"So, get your grades up as best that you can. Work hard on your maths and chemistry and sport and go ahead and apply to the St Canard police academy."

Drake looked at the dark liquid in his cup. "Yeah, I think I will."


	6. Off the Deep End Part 2

_A/N: It's just a really rough background sketch. Disney Owns Darkwing Duck. The episode this pulls from is "Clash Reunion"._

* * *

**Off the Deep End**

* * *

_Nearly One and a Half Years Later..._

Drake grabbed the envelope and ripped through the edge. He yanked out the letter.

"What?" He yelled out at the end of his tether. His voice echoed in the empty silent house. "Denied entrance!"

He looked around. The house was expansive. Upper-middle class style. He paced the expansive floor space, his mind on the letter scrunched in his hand.  
"No ... This is not happening to me! I-don't-accept-it!" He bellowed.

He stood in the study, staring at his father's book collection. Officially, now that he'd turned eighteen all these books were his. He turned around. This whole house was his. This great big gaping ... useless empty mansion was his.

He calmed down a fraction enough to have a rational thought about his defeat. "Alright ... why did I fail?" He collected himself and reread the letter more carefully. "Hmm, okay. It was just the psychological test. I passed absolutely everything but the psychological test ..." He sat down at the large ancient wooden desk, thinking on this failing.

"... Because I get upset a lot. But who doesn't get upset? Teachers don't even teach that stuff." He sighed, and then his eyes fell on the world globe, over in the corner. "This is just a minor setback." He convinced himself. "Yeah, that's all it is. There's a way around it. I just haven't thought of it yet. Hmm, let's see ... a teacher that teaches mental discipline ..."

"Yes, of course!" He jumped up after another moment of thought. "It'll take more than a denied entrance to the police academy to stop this Mallard!" He grabbed the phonebook, flicking through. He picked up the phone. "Hi, I'd like to book a flight in ... July." He studied the calendar. "Yes. To Tibet ... For one; Drake Mallard ... that's perfect. Thank you."  
He put down the phone. "It's gonna take more than one crummy fail mark to stop a true Mallard." He looked at the walls of books. "Who cares what they think? This is my life and I'm going to do what I want ..." He frowned at the scrunched up letter. "And how I want to do it, for that matter ... This is actually a good thing. I'll find my own way to do it. I don't need them."

* * *

_St Canard High School. First Semester End. Evening, Six O'clock..._

Elmo Sputterspark picked himself up off the science room floor and reached for the door knob to open the door. The instant he came into contact with the uncharged metal, the electron build-up in his body discharged, attempting to neutralise the super charge within him.

This fresh ordeal was all too much, and his mind overloaded. "You rotten two timing no-goodnik door knob!" He pointed angrily at the door and discharged a bolt of static electricity at it.

He looked at his finger, realising in horror that he still had plenty of excess charge in him and he was far from neutralised. "Whoa, don't point that thing at me, it might go off." On his realisation he pointed at the first thing he saw; a stool in the corner of the room. He sent the discharge through his finger, and the stool disintegrated. Not enough to neutralise him. He worked to control it; he turned again, and fired on the turncoat treadmill. It disintegrated into an even bigger pile of ash and he was still charged up. He turned around again, now he felt more in control of this side effect. His mind was reeling with calculating this new predicament again, random thoughts connecting, flying, like the electrons he was charged with.

"At last ..." he thought of something positive, "what I've always wanted: the ability to entertain others at cocktail parties!" Then his mind clicked over again.  
"But wait, these powers may have greater uses!" Power to disintegrate things. Evil things like...  
"I can seek revenge on those who tormented me." His mind fixed on Ham and Preena. The evil horrors they'd inflicted, their torture ... "Those who made me a freak!" His mind was still whirling, thinking, random, connecting, he thought of something negative. "Those who ... those who gave me this-ridiculous-hairstyle!"

Every door Elmo came across he had to disintegrate in order to pass through it. Funny as he raced home, after spending so many hours stuck to that treadmill, he had energy now to run again. He ran up the driveway, tears in his eyes, his mind still calculating the nightmare that had become him. He stopped in front of the farmhouse, staring up at the patio furniture bolted onto the roof of the porch, fixing on the friendly and familiar.  
"Ma!" He screamed, falling to his knees. "Help me!"


End file.
